


War Dogs

by tinyfiestyrosiekitten



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Dehumanization, Gen, Gore, IT was meant to make killers, Its not a pretty fic, M/M, SEP did not just produce Super Soldiers, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 12:04:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14618136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyfiestyrosiekitten/pseuds/tinyfiestyrosiekitten
Summary: When the world is ending, instead of fighting fire with mere fire. Science can produce the new nuclear option.Metal is fallible, and typically; so is flesh. But the loyalty of a Dog is a fine thing indeed is it not? Sharp toothed and sharp eyed....





	War Dogs

War Dogs.

They were all military when they signed up. All of them knew what sort of project they were electing for. 

To take what was already there and make it more, right?   
That’s what it started out as too. Innocuous enough: upping basic training to something that’d even make a SEAL cry, putting them through their paces over and over while shooting them up through IV bags full of goo and fluid that burned like hellfire.

They sweated and bled for it, noses and ears and eyes. Pallid grey faces even as they clawed their way through the increasing exercises and drills; the 0200 surprise wake up calls to life fire arms and hand to hand combat and live knife combat against each other. 

Perhaps, that should have been the warning sign: when they authorized and even demanded live fire during drills, real bladed knives and even spars with dirty fighting. 

As their numbers dropped, the rules seemed to disappear entirely and yet get the more strict all the same.

Their diet was monitored strictly. The separated them out; segregated them. 

Their rooms ran hot and cold and hot and back again over and over. The temperature fluctuating wildly no matter what they did. They felt groggy and dizzy and angry all the time; unable to sleep save in snatches. Some sort of buzzing noise in the rooms that pitched high and low and vibrated down into their bones and ears until a few guys tried to claw them off. 

The ‘failures’ for those days were simply shipped to the commanders office and disappeared from there. 

They still continued to pump them full of chemicals. 

They didn’t even bother talking to them like they were actual people at that stage.

Not that they even cared themselves. Near comatose; moving through the motions with the survival instinct that they were unraveling from them. Pitting them more and more against one another, diets restricted even further. You wanted to eat? You had better put your partner into the mat with a broken bone.

Introduced special omnic type units with limited AI and real ammunition.

Better be the first to take it out if you wanted water, a fucking protein bar.  
They really bled now. 

It came down to a no holds barred match between what was left of their class of a hundred. 

15 soldiers, one order: be the last man standing.  
It comes down to two.  
Blood on their hands, their mouths with eyes flat and glassy and unseeing: The pinnacle of scientific perfection of a human being. 

Gabriel Reyes had been a man who liked to laugh, hang on his friends and Jack Morrison had been a good man. Both had been brilliant, determined; and motivated.  
They huddle close together as the scientists congratulate themselves on creating something even an Omnic would need fear. 

Gabriel rumbles deep in his chest and Jack mimics it.  
Blood splashes in high arcs as men who have never once touched a weapon find out what it is to create one, and lose control of it. The military doesn’t really care. They only need the two to survive the war long enough to win it. Wrapping their new nuclear options in manacles and muzzles before locking them in dark dark boxes and shipping them far and away to the war front where they belong.

They click to each other in the dark, and hum and growl.   
Outfitted anew; ear pieces that make them shake and their heads hurt, muddied and fuzzy with the noise from them. Trying to remove them makes the thick collars buckled and soldered shut around their necks prick them. A dose of a sedative strong enough to fell a herd of wild horses makes them weak needed and irritable but pliable enough to have the full manacles applied over their hands and wrists and mag locked into place behind their backs. 

Thick muzzles with a guard in it prevents them from getting their teeth in their handlers; aiming reticules layered over their faces… Ready for war.   
They sway in the back of their transport flight, staring past the red hue of their visor before the dropship door opens, the light flicks green and their manacles drop to the floor. Their feet hit the edge and they stalk off the plane, uncaring as it takes off again behind them. Dragging at their lone supply crate, tearing it apart to find the weapons within: Soldier 24 yanks at the shotguns and Soldier 76 the larger plasma rifle before their heads swing around to the sound of metallic steps.  
Clicking at each other again, humming ever so more lowly before they slink after the noise.  
You won, you ate. You win you live.   
Booted feet make no sound as they hunker over a group of heavy marching bastion units and drop right down into them. The units barely even get to roll their Gatling before they simply tear them apart in a blaze of gun fire and bare handed violence. Stalking through the debris, sloughing through the parts of Omnics.

They win too. Over and over again; set to the task with a vigor that belays the dead eyes behind the masks. The soldiers that they run into call them heroes. They don’t hear it past the devices in their ears, their breath heavy in their noses, their masks. Half suffocated and uncaring as they plow on over and over: watching, waiting.  
After all they were molded to win and win and win. The war was waning though. So they waited. The serum thick in their veins and poured over their muscles and tendons and bones: twisting them in its claws but it did have a benefit.

24 notices it first.

76 not long after.

The devices in their ears was starting to bother them less. The sedatives, no longer left them weak and groggy and vulnerable to lesser predators. They waited until the world poised itself on the edge of piece, as the golden lights flashed dazzling colors over head and they stared at it through the slats in the actual room they’d been allowed. Watched by a bevy of handlers in dark suits loaded with weapons; the lone TV rolling as it talks of ‘peace’.   
They barely understand the words. But they understand the images. A large blonde man shaking hands with an Omnic, gold medals against a crisp uniform… They click behind their masks. Low animal noises that go unheard by their guards; and all they need is for one to let his remote slip from his pocket in carelessness. Complacent by the predator’s constant lethargy and obedience, too slow to get it before a heavy boot crushes it and the mag locks holding 24’s hands captive release. The metal heavy enough to crunch into the floor as it falls.  
Dark suits rise up.   
They do not stay up.

24 is quick to find the second remote, to send his blood partner into the fray. Their hands are all they need to remove limbs and worse from their captors. Because they were made to wage war, not to wait until their handlers decided they were like the omnics. Best left dead in a field somewhere to rot away and the world to forget.  
They stand over the bloody mess, observing the gore and viscera.   
76 turns away first, turning to 24 and gently gripping his mask. Tugging and 24 goes; the two of them exchanging a slow brush of covered cheeks: assuring that they other still lives. Repeating it a few times before they observe the mess again.   
Quick to gather belongings, necessities, only what they can safely carry and hide.  
They were made for war and war was always inevitable.

Wilhelm Reinhardt accepts the status of Overwatch Commander as Ana Amari happily steps up as his Sub-Commander. Unaware their fledgling organization was built on the bent backs of man made monsters.  
The world celebrates, unaware of the two monsters now loose with no commander, no commands, and no moral values. 

They tangle their fingers together, the dark edges of alleys echoing the noises that catch behind their masks. Collars tight to their throats and wrapped in dark body armor: shoulders stamped with their number, dog tag dangling with their bar code printed to it.   
They would find a new war, or wait as they were so good at doing; wait and learn.


End file.
